


Grunt work

by Blemmigan



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types
Genre: POV First Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 17:12:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15934793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blemmigan/pseuds/Blemmigan
Summary: Getting a pokémon license is difficult these days, after an incident eight years ago in which a boy was killed by his own pokémon. So what is an aspiring trainer to do?  Naturally, she turns to somebody offering a free trainer's license... in exchange for working for a mysterious organisation that was thought long gone.





	Grunt work

**Author's Note:**

> Fun bit of original trainer fanfiction, the likes of which I've not written in a long time. Hurray! Not sure how to rate it though.
> 
> This is set roughly twenty years after the events of Gold and Silver. These times, they are a-changing.

> NEED A POKÉMON LICENCE?  
>  We are offering FREE battle licences AND POKÉMON to those over 15 who have yet to BEGIN THEIR ADVENTURE!  
>  These are rewarded as part of an APPRENTICESHIP PACKAGE for those who sign up with our company!  
>  Interested? Reply to recruitment@rckt.jht for further instructions, and CHANGE THE WORLD!!  
>  Join us!  
>  **R**

It was a message I'd seen before. It was a message that _everyone_ must have seen before, at least everyone in the age range that mattered. Reposts, screenshots, links or just allusions shared in chat groups and webpages, over and over, arguing over whether it was real or exactly how much of a scam it had to be. But now I was reading it through again, and this time I was seriously considering sending a reply.

Let me explain. If you (somehow) haven't heard anything about Johto or Kanto for the past eight years you probably don't know what happened, and why that message would mean as much as it did.

It was the dual-region Pokémon League. I was nine, and watching it on TV with my parents. It was the first time I had been allowed to stay up and watch as much as I wanted of the whole thing-- the parades, the acts, the profiles, the battles-- and naturally, I wanted to see it all. Even the opening ceremony took half a day to finish, made up of performances and showmanship, and all the trainers and pokémon who had made it to the Indigo Plateau walking and waving to the millions watching.

Then the battles started. I tuned in for as many as I could, determined that would be me up there one day, but of course it was impossible to watch all of the ones in the qualifying rounds. So there were certain matches my parents and I paid attention to, the ones with something of a local celebrity. Henry Moyer from Cherrygrove, his team led by a powerful charizard. I cheered whenever he was on screen, and my parents would laugh at my excitement, even though I knew they were just as keen. But me... I wanted to be just like him. I wanted to do what he did. He made battling look easy, and I knew it was all I wanted.

And he made it to the semi-finals. He was facing a young woman from Cerulean City, I remember that much. His charizard against her ambipom. It was a fierce match. The ambipom landed a double hit that sent charizard flying, but it was determined to win, coiled and snarling like a painting of an ancient dragon guarding its hoard, head turning this way and that as its teeth gnashed. Henry raised a hand, pointed ahead, and the footage cut out.

Live matches aren't exactly live. There's a delay of about five seconds, just in case something goes wrong. But we assumed, when they switched to show a different match, that it was some kind of mix-up, and instead of concerned, I was annoyed. The fight was just starting! Henry was going to turn it back around!

But the people in the stands saw what happened, and with how many spectators there were it could never have been kept a secret for long.

His charizard killed him.

There were dozens of different accounts over what exactly happened, and each of them was more violent and creative than the last. I must have heard most of them, and they were all worse than what I could have cooked up in my own head. Maybe I just never had that much imagination when it came to the gruesome. Someone at school said it ripped him apart. Another said it ate him whole. Someone else's cousin was there, and they said they _definitely_ smelled burning meat. Within three days someone had found footage of it online and tried to show me.

I got sent home after that. I'd told my parents I didn't need any time off school, but it turned out I was wrong. They try and keep these kinds of things from children, but it was all anyone talked about, and if anything they found it even funnier when I was there and would try to make me cry.

Henry was my brother. I probably should have mentioned that.

My parents did everything they could to keep me out of it, while they released statements and gave interviews and spoke to the press. My mother, in particular, went from being proud of my brother's achievements to condemning the entire practice of training and battling with pokémon. She blamed the Pokémon League. She blamed the professor in Kanto who gave him a charmander all those years ago. She blamed trainers and tournaments and society and anyone who didn't stop it from happening, who must have known these creatures were ticking time bombs.

"We should never have considered this normal. We allow our children to travel alone with only these wild animals for company, and act as though they are tamed. But that's what they are: wild animals. Our whole culture makes sure we forget that, forget how dangerous it is, making children as young as ten think that this is the only worthwhile career. But can we really say it's worth the sacrifice?"

Everyone knew that training pokémon wasn't exactly _safe_. Even those who avoided bites and burns and shocks from newly-caught, skittish pokémon still suffered. While on he road, people fell while riding or flying on their pokémon's backs, or broke their ankles stumbling over tree roots, or got sick from not boiling their water. Even the most careful and health-conscious of trainers got blisters from walking miles every day with no practice beforehand.

But it was part of the deal. Veteran trainers would show off scars, swap anecdotes and laugh about the mistakes they'd made, all while standing beside the very creatures they'd worked so hard to tame and fight alongside. And I suppose that, along the way, we'd forgotten how dangerous it could be, especially for a child being suddenly sent off into the world with a creature by their side who didn't trust them.

Of course, at the time I didn't know any of this. I hadn't read all the opinion pieces on the topic or watched the debates that raged over the following years. I just thought the attack came out of nowhere, and it felt like it couldn't be real. After all, the only pokémon I had contact with was Curly, the glameow that lived with us as a pet, and the pokémon that the teachers at school sometimes brought in. None of them snarled or bit, but then again they weren't trained for battle. I assumed that the vicious ones on television were just playing a part, and had to be docile as the rest of them once the fight was over.

But suddenly my parents were worried, so I was worried too.

Of course, I wasn't allowed to get a pokémon when I turned ten later that year and start my journey to becoming like my brother. I was so scared by it all that I didn't even want to, and my parents never really saw my fear as being anything but normal. Curly was rehomed or taken to a shelter, I still don't know which. My brother's pokémon, too. Except for the charizard, which was put down.

We weren't alone in this. There was a record high of pokémon being abandoned, both those trained (for battle, sport, contests or races) and those kept as household pets. Younger trainers were pulled out of the league by their parents where possible, made to give up their budding careers without warning. Public hysteria reached a peak, with campaigns and protests and thousands and thousands of people using my brother's name as both spear and shield. When his funeral was finally held, the streets outside were packed, and everyone had something to say, whether they were mourning him or blaming him for everything that happened. I remember that far more than any of the words said over the coffin.

It took nearly five years and numerous investigations for people to settle down. I think every single opinion was argued in a hundred different ways. One thing came out of the investigation, though: the claim by many trainers and observers over the years that Henry treated his pokémon badly. He would berate and beat them since they were small, and remained abusive throughout the lives of the creatures that were supposed to be his cherished partners. They said that was the reason the charizard had finally lashed out, exhausted and frightened, in the shadow of my brother's raised hand.

My parents never believed it: it was all words, they said, from people who never even knew him. I agreed with them too, of course, in the way that children do. But as I grew older I realised that I couldn't, because I didn't know Henry either. He left home on his pokémon journey when I was three, coming back for a couple of days every few months, and all I really knew of him was what I heard from my parents and saw of his matches on television. I never said this to them, because they still insist that any word against him is slander. Maybe it is. Maybe I just want to believe that this incredible creatures in our world are gentle and kind, until we give them reason to behave otherwise.

I think that's why the world moved on. People went through a time of being frightened of pokémon and the things they could do, especially to children, but then they forgot. And they missed having pokémon as friends and allies, or raising a creature from tiny, helpless and scared into something by your side that would fight for you out of love. They missed their affection and their protection, the thrill of racing, the sheer joy of competing in contests, and overall? They missed the companionship.

The protests and campaigns left their mark: the laws for being granted a license were made tougher, which essentially boiled down to being made more expensive. There were tests to sit and courses to complete before even being considered for the kind of license that would allow you to battle or buy supplies. It was enough to satisfy those who were still frightened, anyway.

The age range for a beginner license was raised from a minimum of ten up to the (obviously far, far safer) ages of thirteen to fifteen. Those ages could be given a special, easier-to-obtain pokémon license for the deluge of children starting out. It seems like nobody _really_ wanted to scrap the rite of passage that was a pokémon journey. Or, like I said before, they just forgot why they were so scared in the first place.

Those in my age range got a bad deal. I was fourteen by the time the law was ironed out and hysteria died down enough that I could even _consider_ applying for a license and a pokémon partner. But my parents stood in my way, and I was too scared to let them down, and I let the months go past. Soon I was too old to apply for a beginner's permit. Sixteen or over and I would need a professional license if I wanted to battle with pokémon, which is not only more difficult to obtain, it's a lot more expensive.

I'd given up my dream of becoming a pokémon trainer soon after my brother died. But as I got older, I started to dream it it again. By that time I was going to high school and choosing classes, and my parents were delighted that their remaining child was gravitating towards a normal, safe career. But all the while I was saving money. I worked part-time at a local flower shop, and lied about how much I was earning so I could put more of it aside. There were pokémon there, too, none legally registered for battle, but being around them was enough to quell the last of my fears. Sometimes they panicked and hit me with spores or powders, but somehow it just made me more determined to have a pokémon of my own. It was like I was already halfway to being a trainer, if I could deal with things like that.

So that's why, when that online message started circulating last month, I soon began to take it seriously. It was like a badly-kept secret: I must have seen it every day for weeks in one form or another.

_We are offering FREE battle licences AND POKÉMON to those over 15 who have yet to BEGIN THEIR ADVENTURE!_

Eventually I replied. Only to ask if it was real, you understand. Which I know is stupid. What were they going to say? "It's a scam, you got us, sorry about that"? But I was seventeen and I didn't have enough money and I was _aching_ to be a trainer, like I was ten years old again.

I got a reply within a day.

> _From: reuben@rckt.jht_  
>  Subject: Your application  
>  Angie  
>  Glad to hear that you've expressed an interest. We are an independent organisation focused on pokémon raising, training and capture. If you are over fifteen years of age and wish to obtain both a pokémon and accompanying full capture and battle licence, then we can offer you an apprenticeship. We value forward thinking, teamwork, determination and the ability to make the rational choice to succeed. You will not be charged, but should you agree to receive the licence you will be required to work for us for a minimum of one year, starting on the date mentioned below.  
>  If you have changed your mind, then disregard this message. If, however, you are still interested, then please travel to Violet City. Wait by the entrance to the Sprout Tower bridge on Saturday 11th April, at exactly 10:00am. We will see you then.  
>  **R**

They'd gotten my name from my email, almost certainly my full name-- I hadn't thought about that when I sent it. I wondered what else they'd gleaned about me, unless they just sent the standard reply out to everyone. With how popular the post was, they must get a lot. But I hadn't heard anything about anyone else signing up. Which meant that either something had happened to them, or they were keeping quiet out of choice. It had to be illegal, just giving out licenses like that. Didn't it? Or did they just pay for the exams?

Spout tower, just over a week from now. I still lived in Cherrygrove: Violet City wasn't far at all. I could make it a day trip if I took the train.

And, I reasoned, it wasn't as though I'd signed up to anything. It was just asking me to show up. I could watch the bridge and see if anyone shady was nearby. And if I changed my mind I didn't have to go anywhere near it. I could just go home and pretend I never thought about leaving.

I went to bed thinking about it. Then I woke up and went to school thinking about it, and work still thinking about it, and I came home and went to bed and school and work and bed and school and work and it was the evening of April the 10th and I was packing a bag to go to Violet City tomorrow and I definitely _wasn't_ committed to anything.

I told my parents that I might cycle to New Bark the next morning. There was a big path, still wide and cleared of long grass from back when people were hysterical about dangerous wild pokémon, even though there was nothing out there that you couldn't outrun or scare off. I did cycle it sometimes: it wasn't far, and there was a cafe in New Bark where you could sit and watch the sea through its huge, arched windows.

They believed me, and that made me feel bad enough to want to confess, or at least tell them I was going to Violet City, if not the reason why. But I was worried that they might want to come with me, or they might have heard something about people meeting in Violet City for licenses, or that I might give any kind of hint as to what I was really planning if I didn't keep my distance from the truth. So I made a show of checking the wheels on my bike, and neither of them cared enough about cycling to suggest going with me.

The next day I left before either of them woke up, but I still cycled obviously towards Route 29 before, once out of sight, circling back to the train station.

I hadn't known what to pack, so I'd picked things almost at random: some snacks and a drink, a bit of money, a change of clothes in case there was a downpour or something, and I had my phone in my pocket in case my parents couldn't reach me and panicked. The bicycle came on the train with me too, and although I didn't recognise anyone on it with me I still kept my hood up just in case, the picture of a sulky teenager.

I was really starting to regret my choice, and by the time we arrived in Violet City I considered getting straight back on the return train and riding down to New Bark like I'd promised. But instead I went against my better judgement and cycled in lazy loops in the vague direction of Sprout Tower, trying not to make it too obvious that I was keeping a lookout.

It was ten to ten, and I passed by the bridge a few times. There was definitely a couple of people standing there, not moving at all each time I saw them. They were standing apart, leaning against the rails on opposite sides, as a thin stream of people walked up and down between them, mostly tourists. One was tall and broad, head bowed, face shadowed. On the other side was a girl who could have been anywhere from sixteen to twenty-six, long dark hair tangling in the wind as she watched the crowd, head turning as she searched for someone.

She looked up, and our eyes met just as I was slowing to a stop. She frowned, suspicious, as though trying to work out if I was who she was waiting for.

I could have turned around and gone then, but of course I didn't. I took a deep breath, and pushed off the pedals, finally coming to a stop in front of her.

"Who are you?" she asked, accusingly.

It wasn't what I was expecting, which is probably why I said, without thinking, "Angie."

At least it caught her off-guard, too. Or maybe she wasn't expecting me to be a girl, bundled up in a hoodie and a knit cap. Either way, she seemed less defensive when she answered, "I'm Lydia."

"Were you told to wait here?" I asked, which seemed safe enough.

Lydia chewed on her lip. "Yeah. Are you... are you who's meeting us?"

"Um... no." I turned to glance at the second person, wondering if he could hear us, and to my surprise saw he was already hurrying over as though worried he'd missed his chance.

"Ten o'clock?" he asked.

I'd thought he was an adult at a glance, maybe the person responsible, but something about his tone made me look properly, and his face told me that despite his size he was probably my age. He'd decided to do the same as me, cover his head with a hood as though worried somebody would notice him. It made us all look even more suspicious, and I took mine down with a sigh. The hat stayed on, though: my hair was short, but still the kind of bright red that made people remember it.

"Ten o'clock," Lydia agreed. "I wonder how many of us there are."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one," the boy said. He managed a smile that only made him seem more nervous. "I'm Sonny."

"Really?" I asked, without thinking. I was expecting him to be a Tyson or a Harley or maybe something with an "x" in it: his expression was a natural scowl, and he looked like a photofit of a school bully. But when I said it he looked almost upset, so I quickly added, "Sorry. I'm Angie," and he just nodded in response.

Lydia introduced herself with more manners than I had, and then the three of us stood together awkwardly. I checked the time on my phone: it was already ten. _Maybe nothing will happen_ , I thought, and the idea made me feel almost relieved. The three of us were avoiding looking at each other, all of us preparing to leave and pretend that we'd never been tricked at all.

Purposeful footsteps made me look up: a tall woman was walking across the bridge with the authority of a headmistress, and she was headed directly for us. By the time the others thought to turn and look, it was too late: she was already talking.

"Well! You made it!" she said. She was slim but imposing, her clothes fashionably modest but with yellow-blonde hair that was cut in about six different angles, every one of them insisting that you look directly at her face. "I'm so glad! Although we are missing one. It can't be helped!"

Nobody knew what to say, but she hardly seemed to mind. "Now, let's see. Lydia, Angie and... Sonny, yes? Good. Let me run you through what's going to happen. Now, we can't let you begin working for us right away, of course. What we'll do first is have you all carry out some little tasks, to make sure you're made of the right stuff. Done as a group, of course: we're _very_ keen on teamwork. You'll receive information as you progress through. Ah, _you_ must be Will."

The three of us turned around in surprise, just in time to see a pale, black-haired, black-clothed boy standing a few yards away, frozen as though caught in the middle of trying to leave. "Oh."

"Well, gather round, don't make me shout!" she scolded. "Oh, and of course. My name is Josie, and if you need anything, I'll be the first to help." She smiled at us all in a way that was probably supposed to be reassuring, and we all glanced at each other. Will had joined us, elbowing me out of the way to join the circle. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of "teamwork" the four of us would be put to, and how successful it would be.

Sonny cleared his throat. "When do we... uh, do we apply for our license now?"

"Oh, no need." Josie smiled at him. She pulled an envelope out of her purse, and out of the envelope came several familiar-looking pieces of plastic, one of which she promptly handed over to him. "Here. The rest of you, too."

I looked down at the card pressed into my hands, and into a tiny version of my own face. Dishevelled hair, a mess of freckles, a completely unphotogenic appearance: it was my school photo, taken last year. My date of birth was correct, too- had they really found all of this from the name attached to my email? Some of it didn't match up, though: according to this license, it was six months old and my address was listed as a place in Violet City. As for my name...

"'Angie Burrow'?" I read aloud.

"You'll notice some discrepancies," Josie continued smoothly over my question. "That's because these are _not_ your final trainer licenses. However, they'll work for now, until you pass our little tests and we find you suitable." She gave us all a reassuring smile, that none of us returned. "Which I'm sure you will do will flying colours! It's just a precaution."

"These are fake," Will summarised, clearly annoyed. "And the ones we're promised, are _they_ gonna be fake too?"

She raised a hand in an attempt to calm him. "Everything will be sorted out. There's no need to worry. Of course," she added, "you're still welcome to leave, now. But you will not get a license or a pokémon." She waited, pointedly, as nobody walked away. "Wonderful. Then it's sorted. Your apprenticeship begins as soon as you choose your pokémon. After that, as stated in the email, you will undergo an apprenticeship of one year. I'll send you on your way to the next checkpoint."

"Wait!" I raised a hand, then put it down sheepishly as everyone stared. "Where are we going? I didn't bring... I mean, is this a... like a pokémon journey?" I felt silly saying it, even more so when Josie frowned at me.

"The email was quite clear that you would be working for a year from today."

"Well, yes, but I thought it would be a... like, a commute. I mean I haven't told my parents that..." I trailed off, feeling like the idiot everyone had to think I was.

Lydia spoke up, saving me from digging myself deeper. "What _is_ this job? That's what I want to know. I sent messages but nobody responded, and you haven't told us anything concrete, either."

"To put it simply... you will be working as pokémon trainers. Battling for our corporation against other trainers, depending on where you're needed. The pokémon you use, and your method for training, are however entirely up to you."

It still seemed like a non-answer, but I had already been shamed into silence, and Lydia apparently had nothing more to add.

"What corporation?" Will demanded, suspicious.

Josie's face broke into a smile, as though delighted one of us had finally thought to ask. "Team Rocket, of course."


End file.
